Living After Life
by human-tomato
Summary: When more than half of humanity has been eradicated, the only thing left to do is survive.
1. Chapter 1

**P** hil had always had the unfortunate habit of getting himself into difficult situations. Sometimes they were small ones, easily enough laughed off, like the time when he had somehow woken up in a tree, stranded where the branches were thinnest and he was helpless, and had had the wise idea to jump to the ground, an act which had earned him a broken arm and two months without his phone. Others, others were trickier, less inescapable. These were usually caused by things out of his control, like when he had been the only one without a father at career day, because he didn't have a father, and hadn't had one for many, many years.

Or, like how he had been born exactly eighteen years before the world was torn into chunks and pieces.

He had only been drafted into the army a month after it had all started. The "Big War", they called it. Not the _war to end all wars_ , because that hadn't turned out too well the last time—just the big one. The biggest, with armies equipped with more ammo than morals and nukes the size of clouds. And every man, woman, and/or being with opposable thumbs was going to fight, willingly or not.

It was obvious, from the moment that he started training, Phil was about as good with a gun as his officer's cat would be, but his skill as a nurse was undeniable. In under a year, he had surpassed all other "medies".

It was a twisted accomplishment, essentially earned by saving one person so another could die, but Phil took it in stride. After all, if it meant he ended up in a future history book (if any were to be made), it would well be worth it.

And besides, nursing was about as ideal a position as one would ever get. Protected status had been all but eradicated by the side Phil fought for (i.e., "The Enemy"; "Those goddamn bastards"; "Ee's, as in, "possessors of literally fucking everything", and "Hey, is that—"), but the Central's honored it pretty well. Their own medstaff sucked, and they knew showing Phil even the smallest hint of mercy meant at least a bandage, so it wasn't as though they were about to screw that up. This was probably why Phil had kept the same staff of rookies for almost six months, with only one or two stab wounds at worst.

Still, this was war. Cruel and heated and bloody war, and no amount of protection could ever let Phil forget that. Only an idiot would be able to.

He watched as the junior medies carried his latest patient away, without even a stretcher to lay him on. The man was unconscious, but alive.

No one, ever, who was left in Phil's care died. Not unless they were supposed to.

As more shots rang out to his left, Phil's attention snapped back to the work at hand. There wasn't enough time to ponder; people were dying, and it was up to him to save them.

He dodged past soldiers, waving his medic flag (really a small piece of stained white cloth with a red cross). There were too many wounded to help them all, so, as he always did, Phil fixed his attention to one target.

As Phil ran over, he tripped over a person he hadn't seen laying in his path.

It was a small (though not young) boy in the Central uniform. He had dark hair, nearly the same color Phil had dyed his hair to, that was in need of a trim. On his skin was a slight bit of stubble, the kind someone grows more on accident, when they've been away from a razor for too long. (Phil was lucky enough to have been allowed one.) The boy's eyes were closed, but Phil could find a pulse.

The boy's skin was unnaturally pale, and Phil had only just processed the fact when he saw the blood.

Blood was part of Phil's job. His uniform was stained a morbid pink by the stuff. Yet, seeing it on this innocent looking boy, enemy though he was, soldier though he was, startled him. Shocked and disturbed him. Saddened him.

The boy opened his eyes, which were a soft shade of brown. Familiar and warm, they reminded Phil of his mother and the eyes he had always wished he had inherited instead of his cold blue ones. They seemed to be seeing something other than Phil as he murmured unintelligibly.

"What?" Phil knelt next to the boy, leaning closer so as to hear him properly. "I can't hear you. Speak louder."

"Jack," he said. "Have you seen Jack?"

Phil's blood chilled. He had heard stories of dying soldiers, asking for friends, family, or lovers that they'd never see again. Pining for ones they'd lost, or who were about to lose them. And yet, through all his time in combat, he had never...the thought of this boy's family getting a flag back instead of a son paine him.

Clumsily, he started to pull out supplies from his backpack. He was not about to watch him die.

As Phil applied the cloth to the wound, where he had taken a bullet straight to the stomach, the boy screamed. Phil winced, but continued to work, dabbing on the antibacterial cream and stringing a needle. There wasn't enough time to give the boy a block to chew; it was buried somewhere deep in Phil's bag, and would take too long to find.

Another Central fighter heard the scream and started to run toward them, dropping his gun carelessly on the way. He threw himself next to the boy. "Dean?" He asked, watching the color drain from his comrade's face with ever-growing horror. "Dean!"

"Don't worry," Phil promised, using his teeth to tear some gauze. "I'm going to fix him right up. He'll be fine, I—"

"Don't bother." The other's voice cracked. He pushed a stray hair from Dean's face, seemingly unable to look away from his friend. "It's too late—he's gone."

Phil's hands jumped to Dean's wrist. Feeling nothing, he shook his head. "No. No, that's not right. He can't be—"

"Go." The other's face was cold. "I don't give a damn about status; if you say another word, I will kill you."

"But—"

"I said _go_!"

Phil stood clumsily, backing away from him.

The other didn't seem to notice his sputtering movements. He kissed Dean's forehead, shaking visibly with rage and grief, grabbing his fallen gun before charging into the battle. He quickly disappeared in the chaos.

Dean's body, abandoned in the trampled grass, was the final push. The last piece of motivation Phil needed.

He grabbed his bag, supplies still wet with Dean's blood and covered in dirt, and ran away from the battle.

He had to get away from here.


	2. Chapter 2

**T** he city was still a few miles away, but their fuel supply was already gone.

Chris had bought as much as possible at the market, using up what little money the three of them still had from the army. Making good use of his charisma and humor, he had even managed to get them a few pints extra.

Still, they had barely been able to scrape by with a tank full. Gas had been scarce before the war, with heavy fighting in central Eurasia, where supply was at its highest. When the United States failed, so did the already half-assing gas market. With tanks and planes and people rushing to immigrate, it was suddenly harder to come by than real pearls.

With a busted engine and Chris, Pj, and Dan to weigh it down, it was a miracle the vehicle had managed to make it the thirty odd miles it had.

"C'mon," Chris groaned good-naturedly, leaning his head on the steering wheel, "I don't want to walk the rest of the way. It's so _hot_ out!"

"Maybe if we lean forward it'll move some more?" Pj suggested, wiping a sweaty clump of hair out of his eyes. It really was quite hot.

Dan started to pull his boots back on, shaking his head at his friends from the back seat. He was only wearing a gray tee shirt and shorts, but he, too, seemed to be feeling the heat. "I told you guys not to turn on the air conditioning, but look who did it anyway. It's your fault we have to walk the other five miles. Just be glad I'm not making you lug this back to Manchester so that we can sell the parts."

He said it with more amusement than annoyance, and his friends recognized this. They were the only ones that Dan could never hold a frown at.

They all stepped out of the car. Pj and Chris jumped right back in when the pavement burned their feet.

Dan pulled out their supplies from the trunk. A backpack of non-perishable food, mostly canned lasagna and the occasional pickings of crab apples; another bag of supplies, like the matches that they were running low on, band aids, a few sticks of dried wood and the small man purse that used to hold the money, as well as a few other essentials; a small satchel with a handful of thin blankets, and their three individual bags, one for each of them.

The content of these was more interesting. Each bag has a razor, change of outfit, comb and toothbrush for basic hygiene, but that was the exclusive list of common items.

In his, Chris had a number of books (namely, _Harry Potter_ and _The Hobbit_ ), as well as a foldable, lightweight cane.

Pj's held photos of his fiancé and family, a bottle of Ibuprofen he always found some way to refill, a pocket knife, and a copy of the original _Five Nights At Freddy's_ game. When shown, Dan had understood all but the last one. Pj had simply explained it was there, "Just in case."

The last bag belonged to Dan, and it was nothing extra. In his opinion, knick-knacks would only weigh him down, and it was better to focus on the present. Not the past, because that could easily depress a person, or the future, which could never be guaranteed. Just the simple, terrible truth of now.

He did, however, wear a small, plainly shaped locket around his neck. It was severely tarnished and grimy, and held not a single photo, but he wore it religiously. Neither Chris nor Pj knew why, but they didn't pressure him to tell, either.

It was a lot to carry, but none of them really minded. Their time in the army had strengthened them, short as it had been. Not that it stopped Chris and Pj from complaining.

"—Maybe if you weren't such a fatass and actually participated in training, you'd be fine." Pj joked at Chris. "I'm not surprised you got shot, really. The Enemy must've had hours to aim."

"I'm surprised you _didn't_ get shot," Chris shot back. "With your hair, they'd mistake you for a poodle and shoot you for dinner."

"Who eats—"

"Guys!" Dan barked suddenly, pointing above their heads. Though it had passed as quickly as it came, there was no mistaking what it was.

A Central bomber, headed towards Manchester.

As if to confirm their fears, only a few minutes later smoke began to rise in the distance.


	3. Chapter 3

**T** hey hadn't been able to reach the place quickly, though Pj continuously urged them to and they had wholeheartedly tried. Once they did, Dan was depressed by what he saw.

Manchester, one of war-torn Earth's few thriving cities, had been reduced to a place of dust and smoke.

Children wandered around with lost, dazed gazes. Bodies were scattered almost carelessly throughout the streets, many with bleeding stumps instead of appendages or heads.

In the center of the once-city, where Dan remembered there had once been a church, was a crater more than fifty feet in diameter. Everything surrounding it had been obliterated completely, entire homes turning into rocks and dust, and people mere shadows on the pavement.

Loud sobs wracked the otherwise quiet place. Dan sprinted towards them, stopping just before the source.

Around Pj was a pile of rocks, probably the reason why his hands bled so and what he had pulled off the body of a woman Dan recognized. One he had been shown many photos of, and had heard about in such intricate detail that he felt he really knew her.

Pj's fiancé.

She had always been a strong woman—or so Dan had been told. Now, she looked meek. Small and weak, broken body lifeless in her lover's arms.

The weeping grew to the point where it hurt Dan in an almost physical way. Without a word, he walked off.

Throughout the day, people—survivors who hadn't been to badly hurt, as well as Chris, Dan, and a handful of others who had seen the explosion—tended to the wounded. One long succession of burns to bandage, aches to soften, and children to comfort.

Three hundred people had been killed in the attack. Two hundred more were missing, with bodies buried by rubble or obliterated by the blast. Countless more were injured. All Dan and Chris could do was help to bury the dead and pity the living.

It was midnight when Dan had finished with his patients, and he was exhausted. He took a quick shower underneath a broken pipeline, letting the dust and blood slip off him. The pipe shed its last cold drop after only a few short minutes, but the wash made him feel at least a little bit better.

As he passed the makeshift hospital, set up in one of the few remaining buildings, Dan noticed that only one person was still working. It was a boy he had seen earlier, one with eyes that he remembered had seemed were too bright for this darkness. A thought he had immediately felt stupid for, of course, but came to mind anyways.

He saw Dan staring and waved, motioning silently for him to be quiet. Most of the patients were sleeping by this time. Dan nodded his understanding and left, spying Chris not too far off.

"How is he?" He asked his friend, jogging over.

"Stable." Chris said. "He was upset at first, but he's quieter now. It might just be the eye."

"Possibly," Dan agreed, running a hand through his wet hair, "but I'm sure he'll be fine soon enough. He's strong. And we'll be there for him."

Chris sighed. "Listen, Dan, I know you're a robot, but the rest of us aren't. Humans aren't quite as stable as they seem. It's this little thing called emotions?"

"Seems quite cumbersome," Dan said dryly. "Trust me on this one, mate. He's in good hands." Dan clapped his friend on the back and smiled. "I'm going to go help out with the hospital for a bit before I sleep. There's just one guy in there, and I feel slightly bad about it."

"Better you than me."


	4. Chapter 4

**I** t was a horrible, awful thing, but a person really did get used to the smell of burning cadavers after a while. Which was not to say that a person ever grew to enjoy it—the smell itself was sweet in a rotten steak sort of way and always brought up bad memories like smoke.

For Dan, it was the memory of his mother's funeral.

She had been one of the first casualties, before this clusterfuck was even a war. Way back when it was random acts of terror and power shows by the U.S. government that were worse displays than an elementary school play. A suicide bomber had gotten onto her bus, sitting next to her.

He had warned her, before. Given her only just enough time to text Dan a quick _I love you_ before killing everyone aboard.

His mother had been so kind. So lovely. So energetic that it was almost blasphemy for her to lie as still as she did upon those logs.

Dan hadn't been used to the scent then, but he was now.

He couldn't even imagine what Chris and Pj were thinking. They were both standing, stone-faced, with eyes cast down. Tears were flowing from all three boy's eyes for varied reasons, but none bothered to wipe them away.

Behind them, the sun rose in colors to rival the golden flames. Later they would have to leave. No one could stay in this broken city, and besides, they had only come to pick up Pj's fiancé.

They were supposed to be heading somewhere safe, a place Pj's recruiter had told him about, but Dan was starting to think that even the living couldn't be saved.

But if they couldn't, then who could?

It was supposed to be a camp. A place the Central and Enemy powers had aligned over, one only the top officers knew about to keep its population at a minimum. Pj's recruiter had found him charming and told him about it, with a warning that groups of more than four would be turned away. Dan supposed they wouldn't have to worry about numbers now.

The fire slowly died, and Chris put an arm around Pj's back. "I think I still have some chocolate left. It may be melted, but it's yours with a word."

Pj smiled gratefully. "Thanks, Chris. I'd like that." He was a smart person, and knew his friends were doing their best to comfort him. Something even just the act of trying can do so much for a person.

The three made their way back to camp, and Dan left Chris and Pj alone. Chris had been right; he really was lousy with feelings. Dan knew it would be best to leave Pj 'till the storm blew over.

As he wandered around the ruins, Dan heard a voice behind him say, "Stop."

Two years of training meant that Dan did not take that word lightly. In one swift motion, he pulled out his pocket knife, unsnapped it, and held it to the other person's throat.

It was the nurse boy, and he did not look happy at his word's effect. Amused, maybe, but not happy. "Army?" He asked.

Dan nodded stiffly.

"I thought so. You and your friends have the aura of ex-soldier. Strong and scarred, you know."

Dan did not know, but he did not say this. He didn't drop the knife, either.

"You can drop that, you know. I won't hurt you."

Dan glared at him suspiciously.

"I promise."

Something in his tone made Dan lower the knife, if hesitantly. Because that was Dan—always wary, waiting for the next attack. Even then, a rush of anxiety bubbled in his chest at the thought of what this man could do while Dan was unarmed.

"What did you want, anyway?" He asked roughly.

"I heard you were going to the safe space, with your buddies. And, well," for a moment, he seemed almost uncomfortable, "I'd like to come. I can be your medic, help with carrying supplies. I was a soldier, too, you know—I can shoot...decently."

"Right," Dan scoffed. Something about the "decently" had been a little too hesitant for it to be believable. "I think you're going to have to hitch another ride."

"Please," he begged, grabbing onto Dan's sleeve. "I need to go. My family's waiting for me, they have been for months. They—they probably think I'm dead in a ditch somewhere. Or that I abandoned them. I can't just leave them."

Dan sighed. "You see those two?" He tilted his head back at Chris and Pj, who had stopped a good ten feet away. Far enough for the conversation to be private, but close enough to help just in case. "They are my family. I have no one else, nothing else, besides them. So if you think that I'm going to let a stranger, probably a no good Scavenger come with us, set up camp, eat our food, get buddy-buddy and slit their throats while we sleep, you're dead wrong."

"I'm not a killer. I'm a nurse."

He might've imagined it, but Dan thought he could see a little shift in Phil's eyes. Something dark fell over them, like he was reliving something. Something awful.

"Listen, nurse boy—"

"Phil."

"Phil. I want you to come, but there's going to be some convincing to do with my buddies, alright?" Dan didn't know why he was agreeing to this; it was crazy, beyond insane. This guy could be a killer.

But, really, they all were, so it didn't make much of a difference.

Dan put an arm around Phil's shoulder and mustered a smile. "Let's see what we can do."


	5. Chapter 5

" **N** o. No way. We are absolutely fucking _not_ doing this."

"C'mon, Chris," Dan urged. "Phil's a...nice enough guy. A good medic, too! He saved a shit ton of lives yesterday, and even you have to admit that that's pretty commendable. Half the people in this entire city owe their lives to him."

"That's not the point, Dan! We can't just replace her with a randomized stranger! Pj would be even more devastated than he already is."

"Pj's fine," Dan brushed him off. "After all, he hasn't even cried since the funeral, and even then just barely! And I'm not bringing him along just to bring him along, we need him. He'll help carry supplies."

"And use them."

"And gather more." In the past ten minutes, Dan had become Phil's most fervent supporter. "None of us know shit about med stuff, either. We have band aids, for god's sake! Have you seen his kit? It's stacked! Needles, gauze—he probably has something in there that'll help when your leg acts up. And you'll love Phil, I swear. He's angelic, see?" Dan motioned towards Phil, who nodded agreeably. He seemed rather uncomfortable for the person who had instituted the argument in the first place.

Pj seemed to have had enough. From where he was watching at Chris's elbow, he asked, "What about my opinion? Instead of literally speaking like I'm not here, let me talk." He glared at Chris and Dan, who looked down sheepishly. "I think Phil should come. Everyone deserves the chance to live. But you need full approval for this to pass, Dan. That's how this works."

Down the street, a woman screamed. The word was inaudible through her panic, but as people began to swarm down the street the same one began to bounce off everyone lips.

 _Hangers_.

Dan's stomach plummeted. The four of them ducked behind a slab of rubble, waiting for the stampede to pass. From what he could hear from the screams and passing words, the machines would be there in only a few minutes.

Chris shook his head, standing as the people began to stream away, headed to a "safe" bunker. Dan knew that there was really no safe place when it came to Hangers. Gathering everyone in one place would only make them all easier to kill. Chris seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because he watched the last person scurry away and kicked at a piece of dark rubble with a scowl. "Everyone deserves a chance to live," he agreed begrudgingly.

He pulled Pj to his feet and the two shook Phil's hand, introducing themselves to him. They ran off to the makeshift camp to gather their thankfully unscattered supplies.

Phil seemed more hesitant to follow, eyes darting to the church where the hospital had been set up. No one running away had gone in that direction. "My patients…" he whispered.

Dan shook his head. This was war, and there wasn't enough time to care for the wounded. Only the able could run, and only the able could survive. "Stay if you'd like, but that'll just make all your convincing a waste of effort. Not to mention my arguing."

Silently, Phil nodded, and the two hurried to join Pj and Chris.

They were all a mile gone before the Hangers began to swarm the city, and the screams started again.


	6. Chapter 6

**T** hey walked for hours. Dan snapped at anyone who stopped for even a second, even Chris. Usually he gave his friend some leeway because of his injury (he had taken a bullet to the leg trying to escape enemy soldiers), but today he didn't seem to care how much pain his friend was in. Thankfully, it was a good day, so it wasn't much.

Chris and Pj were used to Dan's bitterness. They knew that he only wanted to keep them all safe, and the thought that they should be hurt by his words had slipped their mind long, long ago. After all, this was Dan; bitter, robotic Dan, but also caring, witty, strong Dan. The one who would pay any price, lose any limb to save his friends.

As always, Dan was walking a good hundred feet ahead of the group. Occasionally he'd run back to pressure them to hurry (though the rest were all sure that they had left the danger behind) or just to tell them that the waters were empty. Which was to say, they were good to go on.

Maybe it was Dan's speed that put him so far ahead. Or his want to be the one to sense danger, so he could disable it. Whatever the case, it relieved Phil to have him so far away. Something about Dan unnerved him; he could almost still feel the cool metal of the pocket knife against his neck.

Chris and Pj were mostly silent, though it pained the first to be so. Chris couldn't tell what the other two were thinking (Dan wasn't as hard to read—his mind was just _angry angry angry, kill something kill something kill Phil_ , which was strange for the one who had wanted to bring the boy along in the first place), but he was dying. From the heat, from tiredness, and from the extreme need to say something. There was a reason why he hadn't been allowed on any secret missions, after all. His loud mouth would've gotten the whole team killed.

He glanced over at his friend, who was looking at him with a small smirk. "I'm surprised you haven't exploded yet," Pj said. "It's been at least an hour since you said anything."

"Oh, thank god," Chris breathed, shoulders relaxing. "I thought we were going to go the whole day without talking. You know how much that would kill me, right? I've had so many things to say but we haven't been talking and I can't say them because I didn't know if you wanted me to speak because you might still be upset. And I really am sorry about Sophie. I know she meant a lot to you."

He said this all as if it were one run-on sentence, too quickly for Phil to comprehend more than a few random words. It must just be a thing of practice, because Pj didn't seem to have a problem with understanding Chris.

"You didn't have to hold back," he said, shaking his head. "I really do miss Sophie, but...well, she wouldn't have wanted me to just give up. I know everyone says that, but it's true. We've talked about it before. Everyone knows the risk of love, now more than ever. I just wish I could've found her note."

Chris nodded. Death notes were a fairly common replacement for wills. There wasn't much left to give away; homes weren't permanent, money was all but useless. Death notes were simply letters, addressed to the ones that a person cared for most. Some were short, some were thicker than the Bible. It all varied based on who the writer was, but all notes were the goodbyes that went unsaid. In them, people have been known to confess love, lead the reader to a supply of extra money or bullets, or even just tell them to fuck off.

In a world where people could die before they even registered the pain, it was nice to have something to hold onto. A way to remember the ones you loved, and to carry a piece of them with you in a way that isn't creepy.

Pj cleared his throat and smiled at Phil. "So, where did you meet Dan?"

"He helped me in the hospital," Phil answered easily. "He's a good guy."

Chris and Pj shared a look and exploded in laughter. "No, no," Chris wheezed, putting his arm around Pj's shoulders, "don't get us wrong. H—he's a nice guy, it's just—the way you said that…"

"You're a horrible liar." Pj agreed, calming down some. "And your face—priceless. Don't worry, Phil, you don't have to lie. We know Dan is a prick—"

"A mega bitch." Chris cut in.

"Yes, that too, and he hasn't exactly been the best today. Especially not to you. Hell, this is almost a constant mood for him. But…" he glanced over at Chris, lost for words.

"But you get used to it," he finished.

"How are you guys still friends with him?"

Pj shrugged. "He's a little shit, but still great. Loyal, good for a laugh. We're like a bunch of sticky rubber bands; you can't separate us without a shit load of pain. Being in the army, seeing all these awful things...It builds a connection. He'd die for us. Mind you, he'd die for anything nowadays."

"He saved my life," Chris added. "Pj's, too. We were on the run from some rogues and he killed them. He acted like it wasn't a big deal, afterwards, but we all knew it was. There's a difference between killing soldiers and killing civilians."

"But they weren't civilians," Phil said. "They were Scavengers. Murderers. The world is better off without them."

Ahead of them, Dan turned around, cupping his hands to his mouth. "Hey, you lot!" He hollered, stopping so that they could catch up. "I think we've been walking for long enough—"

"You're only just realizing that?"

"Shut up, Chris," Dan grinned. "There's a spot just ahead, completely flat." He pointed at a spot where a few piles of something were scattered. "Someone left some firewood there when they were there last, too. It's a little damp, but should work. There's a lake nearby too. Unless you'd like to go further?"

"I call dibs on first bath!" Chris yelled. He and Pj started to run towards the piles, shoving each other to reach them first.

Dan shook his head, starting after them. "Idiots," he muttered. Without acknowledging Phil, he started after his friends.


	7. Chapter 7

_**T**_ _he man was laying on the table. Two cords wrapped around his arms. They were too tight; Phil could see that even from where he stood. It would be uncomfortable for the patient, and might mess with the results. With annoyed flick of his wrist, he motioned for his assistant to fix them. She did so without complaint._

 _He turned to face his assistant just as he pressed the button, only to realize that she was no longer there. She was inside, past the glass, desperately trying to unhook the man._

 _The shock couldn't be stopped._

 _It went into both of them, electricity flowing through their systems like the air they once breathed. Zoe had been right, of course_ — _it was too much. Their hearts both stopped within nanoseconds._

 _Phil covered his mouth, sinking behind the dashboard. The smell of burning flesh, so sweet and horrible, wafted into the room through the still-open door. He didn't want to look. He couldn't look._

 _The bodies were carried from the room. He turned away, gagging when they passed too close._

 _But, somehow, Zoe's face kept pressing closer and closer in his mind. The red tissue of her skin; blackening slowly, slowly. Fire overtaking her features._

 _I told you, she whispered infinitely. I told you._

 **P** hil's throat stung. He clawed at it, thinking he must be going through shock treatment. This must be how it felt, to have the life pulsed out of you. Hot and wet and dry. Shaking all over.

But the wetness was just tears. And the shaking, in part, came from Chris, who had Phil by the shoulders. "Hey, mate," he said, in a hushed tone, "it's a dream. Wake up."

Phil was glad he didn't add "just" to that sentence. He supposed that Chris, having been in the army, would understand that it sometimes was never _just_ anything. No matter how much it sucked, sometimes the past is the past and comes back to haunt your present.

Next to them, Dan and Pj were sleeping peacefully. They were both laying so close an outsider might've thought they were on entity, and Chris's bag-turned-pillow was set up so that Phil could tell he had been lying near them, too. Meanwhile, Phil's own set up was ten feet away, about as isolated as he could get without being out of reach of the fire's heat.

He was an outsider in the group, and for the first time he was starting to hate that.

"Are you okay?" Chris asked, handing Phil a canteen.

Phil took a sip and handed it back to him. "Thanks," he whispered, keeping his voice quiet. "It was a nightmare."

Chris laughed. "Well, no shit. Want to talk about it?"

He didn't. He did. Chris seemed like the kind of guy he could trust; warm, funny. And Phil had always wanted a person to confide in, the way the three who surrounded him probably confided in each other. He had so many secrets, so much weight...it was a lot to carry alone. Too much, sometimes. But he barely knew Chris, as much as he would like to. For all Phil knew, telling him what he wanted to would only get him killed.

"Army stuff," he decided simply.

"Always the worst kind." Chris smiled at him. "Hey, you know you don't have to sit so far away, right? No one's going to kill you."

"I guess."

"By that I mean, c'mere." Chris picked up Phil's bag, despite his protests, and carried it closer to the fire. Not in the middle of the spoon-fest, but in reach. "Just for tonight, yeah?"

"Yeah." Phil put his head on his backpack. The clothes provided a cushion, so despite the books inside it was actually rather comfortable. "Thanks."

He closed his eyes and tried to forget to dream.


	8. Chapter 8

**P** hil waded through the clear water, watching the minnows scurry between his legs. It was very peaceful by the river—even the water flowed lazily on a hot day like this.

If he closed his eyes and listened hard enough, the creek's woosh could almost be his sister's laugh. The wind, ruffling the dead, dry grass, could be his brothers playing a game of Indian. Not too far away, his mother would be sitting in her chair, sunglasses on so it would seem as though she were watching her children when, in reality, she was in some other world entirely.

He fooled himself with this game a number of times. Each one ended with Phil opening his eyes hopefully, only to find that he was hopelessly alone.

Well, not completely alone, though he almost wished he could be. Dan was hidden somewhere in the thick foliage of the trees, hunting for fresh game.

They—Pj and Chris included—had set up a slightly more permanent camp just downstream. It wasn't much different from a regular camp, really—more organized and with a reusable stone fireplace.

Phil's travel mates had all been hit by a huge Enemy attack. A bomb had exploded, its shrapnel blinding Pj and distracting Chris enough for him to be shot in the leg. Both were discharged and Dan, uninjured, had deserted in order to leave with them.

As Phil knew, Central nurses sucked. Their care of Chris has been sloppy and rushed. They had only barely managed to save Chris's leg, and the wound still hurt him on occasion, as it did today.

Phil, guiltily, had watched Pj break into his precious supply of Ibuprofen that morning. They all knew it would do little, if anything, to help the needles of pain shooting up and down their friend's leg. (Was it odd, for Phil to be so attached to these two after such a short amount of time? It had been maybe a week, and yet he was already accustomed to laughing with Pj, talking late into the night with Chris. Dan was a completely different story.) Phil had traded his own painkillers, ones that actually might've had a shot at working, to a woman back in Portsmouth for food. He wished he had just gone hungry that night.

Wanting to feel useful, and feeling like an intruder as he watched Pj and Chris laugh together, Phil had offered to get water. It was a tedious task—one had to gather enough water to fill the canteens, boil it, strain it, strain and boil the water again for good measure, and then simply pray that it wasn't radioactive or carrying the next plague. Still, it got him away, and that in itself was enough to stop him from complaining.

The mouth of the river widened, slippery rocks slowly melting into mud that slid between his toes. The current calmed until it was only the smooth ripples of a pond.

Cautiously, Phil tread forward, wary of any sudden drops in the ground. The pond was only about fifty meters across, and as he walked through it he found that, at its deepest, it only reached just below his chin.

He stayed in the spot for a while, bathing in the water and splashing around like a five year-old. It had been a long time since he had felt so happy, or so free.

As Phil climbed out, he noticed tracks leading away from the water. With a grin, he grabbed the canteens and followed them.

Dan had gone into the woods to clear his mind, but as soon as he began his walk his thoughts became more prominent than ever. They were all about Phil, too, which only served to make him even more infuriated.

No one would ever describe Dan as nice. Ballsy, maybe. Self-confident to a point of arrogance, now that's an exact quote. But nice? Kind-hearted and anything but mean spirited? Anyone who knew him would laugh. He would, too. But, no matter how stone cold his heart was, Dan wasn't predisposed to hate people. He just didn't, and never had.

But Phil was an exception.

Dan couldn't pinpoint the exact reason why, really. He was just too _everything_.

Too kind. He had offered to get water, without Dan even yelling at him to do so, and Pj and Chris really seemed to like him. Normally, that would count for something, but it only served to make him angrier. It seemed impossible for someone to smile more than he did. The effects of his first impression had worn off, and even reserved.

Too compatible. Not with Dan, but with his friends. Every day, while he walked alone, he'd hear them laughing behind him. When it was just Chris and Pj, it was different. They made a point to run ahead and include him on occasion, and he loved them too much to be angry at them. But Phil was just different somehow. New. Unfamiliar.

Too smart. He had a way of making Dan feel stupid; childish. Like a toddler who was trying to act rebellious. He was the one who had set up the fireplace, making it more permanent, and easier to use.

There was so much more, things Dan refused to admit to himself.

He saw that the sun was beginning to set and headed back to camp. As Dan got closer, he smelled something that reminded him of the Sunday mornings when his father used to cook bacon and eggs.

Pj saw him waved, holding what looked like a leg of an animal in the air. "Dan, hey!" He greeted.

Dan came up next to him. They were all sitting in a circle around the fire. In the embers lay a carcass of a deer, skinned and fully cooked. "Hey," Dan said absently. "Who got the meat?"

"Me," Phil grinned at him happily, a spot of oil shining on his chin. "I've never had venison before, but it's actually really good. D'ya want some?"

Dan shook his head, setting his knife down on top of the small stack of weapons they had stockpiled together over time. _They_ being he, Chris, and Pj. Not Phil.

The boy persisted, "Are you sure? We have this whole deer, and there's plenty—"

"I'm not hungry, Phil. I'll just go get some water."

"I already—"

"I know. I know you already got the damn water. I'm going to get more."

He stormed away, making a show of dumping out the perfectly good water Phil had already collected. (It was crystal clear. Damn; how did he filter it so well?) It was a douchey thing to do, one that made even Chris swear at him, but he couldn't have cared less. He was pissed.

Not even at Phil this time, either. Phil had just wanted to reach out to him; to be kind. Form an alliance, at the very least. And what had he done? Turn him down like a piece of shit. And he really was hungry, too—now he'd have to fry up fish for his own dinner.

He hated fish.


	9. Chapter 9

**T** hey stayed in the same spot for a week. Dan wanted to keep moving, but the other three had outvoted him. " _C'mon, Dan,"_ Pj had said, " _we all like it here. It's warm, and we can take baths in the river."_

Dan took that last bit to heart. Phil had barely seen him since they set up camp; Dan came back rarely, on occasion dumping the occasional duck or bird carcass in their food pile during the day and appearing late into the night to nestle into his sleeping back. He left early in the mornings, before the sun even rose.

Phil had been meaning to talk to Dan, but he had only been able to get him alone once, after waking from an exceptionally bad nightmare. He had been stoking the fire, and the only sound that broke the night was the gentle crackle of the flames. Something had held Phil back from speaking; it just didn't feel right to disturb Dan when he was like that. There had been something vulnerable in his movements, the way he moved the stick jerkily, his eyes darting around as he tried to look through the menacing darkness that encompassed them all.

It was then that Phil thought that Dan might just be like him: scared. Scared and unsure, trying to put up a brave face and laugh off the pounding in his chest. To act like he wasn't painfully aware of how the next day could be his last tomorrow, or how everything he survived for, his family, his hope of a better future, could be taken in a matter of seconds. (Of course, this was something they all knew, and had always known. But it was a subconscious thought, something that they remembered and occasionally nagged but was never _there_ , pressing against the skin and demanding to be known.)

Phil immediately dismissed this notion; Dan was the leader. He hated to admit it (you'd have to kill him to hear it), but it was true. He hunted, he protected them, he gave orders, and he provided everything they needed to survive. Phil remembered reading _The Hunchback Of Notre Dame_ in school, and how Quasimodo had raised Esméralda into his air, shouting "Sanctuary!" over and over. Dan was like that; not the hunchback or the girl, but the church. He was safety. Being with him meant surviving, as much as drinking water meant avoiding dehydration.

Phil heard splashing ahead of him. He should've known that the pond would be near; the clumps of trees were thinning out, letting a steady stream of gold shimmer through the leaves were trampled here, a path had been worn out by them all, Dan especially. Still, the noise, however slight, surprised him.

He moved forward carefully, finding a pile of clothes near the border between water and land. Dan was off swimming nearer to the middle of the pond.

Phil started to turn away, but saw something gleam amidst the pile. Curiously, he bent to examine it.

He hadn't thought Dan wore jewelry, but apparently he had been wrong. It was a small locket, circular and plain, with gentle tarnish. He struggled with the latch to no avail.

Phil set the locket back on the pile and stood. He hadn't had much luck hunting that day; the only animals he saw were rats and squirrels, all thin from lack of food. Most things were, now. The U.S. had been a major trade country, even at its end, and the recent bombings had made miles of land unfarmable. Humans weren't the only things impacted by war—they were just the only ones who could complain about it.

Phil jogged back to camp. Chris and Pj were huddled by the fire, laughing and frying some greens they must've collected earlier. They didn't have pans—they were much too heavy and cumbersome to fit into a single backpack—so Phil had suggested that they drag a rock over to cook on instead. The stone heated up just enough to cook the food and not let it catch fire, as long as they didn't let the flames get too big. Plus, it reflected the warmth at night so that you didn't have to be at risk of getting singed just to be warm.

Pj looked up, seeing him. "Hey, Phil," he greeted, waving smoke out of his face. "Hunting no good today?"

"Unless you want squirrel for dinner."

"Squirrel, huh?" Chris said thoughtfully, "I heard it taste like snake."

Pj stared at him. "And what is snake supposed to taste like?"

"Chicken. I thought it was a bit chewier, like pork, but I guess that's supposed to be the general consensus. That it tastes like chicken, I mean."

"Couldn't you just have said 'Squirrel tastes like chicken' then?"

"It was all the same in the end."

Pj rolled his eyes and turned back to Phil. "We've got some fiddleheads that should be ready in a few, if you'd like. Or we could cook some of the venison. That'll probably go bad soon, and we don't want to be carrying around rotten meat."

"Will it really expire that quickly?" Chris asked. "Dan said we only have a few days of walking, if we get going again. Except he probably definitely said that last part in italics, because he's Dan."

"But we won't be leaving here for a while. At least, not if I have any say in it. We're free out here; as soon as we get to the safe area we'll have to stay there forever. Or, at least, until the war ends. Can you imagine? The same facility, same people, same walls. I just couldn't."

"It's a big place, Pj," Chris reasoned. "And what's the point of being free if we're constantly running for our lives? I'm sick of being helpless and hunted. It's like we're squirrels, and the hunters are...the hunters are us. No matter how much we run, there's no real escape. It's terrifying. You too can't possibly be nonchalant about it."

"We know how to kill them," Phil shrugged, accepting a few of the fiddleheads from Pj. "As long as we can do that, I guess it isn't so bad."

Pj jumped, hand slipping into the red for a second. "Shit!" he swore, clutching the appendage against his chest protectively. "What do you mean you know how to kill them? No one knows how to get rid of the Enemy's version; that's the reason why there's still so many of them."

"Trial and error," Phil lied. In truth, he had been one of the scientists who had helped to modify the second batch of machines. "If you hit the sensor, the part that looks kinda like a blindfold, they pass right out. It's just hard to do, because they're always swinging that stupid knife."

Hangers were a Central creation, robots meant to replace the ever-growing amount of deserting soldiers. They were ugly, mismatched pieces of metal all clumped together to form a single, floating machines with an "arm", at the end of which was a knife. They had worked fine at first, in testings and during their first few months in action. Then the Enemy army had tried to recreate them, messing up the wiring completely. The entire batch, hundreds of them, went haywire. They attacked everything in sight—Central, Enemy, civilian. No one was safe.

They were nearly impossible to kill, too. Not only did they go wild as soon as they sensed a presence, but most didn't know about the wiring hidden behind the sensor. Phil didn't know why he had assumed Pj and Chris would; the information, as far as he knew, was never publicly released.

"See, it's not so bad," Pj beamed, "Phil can protect us!"

"Really? He looks a little scrawny for the job. No offense, of course."

"None taken," Phil laughed. "I'm not much of a fighter, really. Last time I fought one I nearly got sawed in half." He showed them a scar on his arm, where a Hanger's knife had broken the skin. "But as long as I can make it to the camp, I guess I'll take the challenge."

"Who do you have waiting for you there?" Pj asked. "friend, spouse?"

"My family, actually." Phil said confidently. "Mum, brother. They promised they'd meet me there; got early news of the place from one of our neighbors."

Pj and Chris shared a look, one that did not go unnoticed by Phil. "What if," Chris said cautiously, "what if they didn't make it, Phil? What would you do then?"

He shook his head, not wanting to think of the _what if_ , "They did." He said, firmly. "I know it."


	10. Chapter 10

**C** hris had insisted that something was wrong, or that something was about to be, since the moment the first colors began to tumble across the sky. He had even go so far as to pack everything into the bags, much to Pj's annoyance, "just in case".

Dan, for one, had been fully supportive, if a little annoyed. After all, he had been pressuring the others to start moving for weeks. If only he had known that it was just as simple as stuffing everything into the packs and threatening to leave without them.

They had only been walking for a few hours when they decided, unanimously and wearily, to stop for a break. After so long without constant movement, they were all sore and slow.

No one talked. Pj leaned against Chris and quickly fell asleep, and taking up what little energy remained to speak seemed like an impossible feat to the other three. Instead, they sat in silence, chewing numbly on the bits of dried meat they had collected and losing themselves to their own thoughts.

For those moments, all was peaceful. The silence between the friends was something familiar, a comfort that, if only for a short amount of time, allowed them to forget the world beyond, and the dangers that lay ahead.

But then, Pj's even breathing stuttered. His eyes flared open, widening in panic as he sat up hastily. With a shaky voice, he said, "Something's coming."

In a second, the rest heard it too. The low, quick whirring sound that was all too familiar to them. The one normally associated with robots, fans, or, more commonly, _Hangers_.

They all jumped up, clumsily throwing supplies over their shoulders. Later, they promised themselves, there'd be more time to fight over who had to carry what later. But in the moment, they couldn't afford to allow petty arguments over who was hauling more weight to let them drag behind. Dan and Pj, the strongest of the group, carried the most and heaviest bags, and Chris and Phil (a former engineer and nurse, useless with weights), grabbed one or two others, filled only with clothes and knick-knacks.

The whirring got closer, and suddenly the machines burst through the leaves. The metal, mismatched, as ugly as they all recalled, was dull even in the sun, reflecting the light no better than a black hole would.

They all ran, sprinting and falling and stumbling back up again—no one could even exchanged panicked glances, lest the ground slip beneath their feet and send them tumbling forward—even as they went, they could feel them getting closer, hear the loud clicks and beeps like the machines were talking in an alien language.

Next to Phil, Chris stumbled. Out of impulse, he reached to help his friend, but the other was back up before he could even fully turn back. "Go," Chris urged, pushing Phil forward, roughly, but not so much that he would fall, "don't mind me."

But then it happened again. And again. And Phil could tell that Chris had been lying when he said his leg was fine to walk on, that it caused him no pain whatsoever. Because it did—you could tell in the erratic way he walked, how his left leg seemed to stutter before rising into the air again with each step; how, when they had stopped for a break, he hadn't complained, or even brought up the possible danger of staying.

Phil had noticed these signs; they all had, however slightly. But no one had really thought anything of it, until it was too late.

They had just reached the top of a hill when Chris fell. This time, he couldn't get up, and even Dan and Pj came sprinting back, faces red, barely able to ask what was wrong through their pants.

"It's my leg," Chris admitted. Tears were streamed down his face, and he couldn't help but grunt in pain as he reached back for his bag. He pulled out a knife, one that they usually used to slice the meat. "You guys go on. I can fend them off, or at least buy you a little time."

"Chris—"

"No, Dan. If I keep going, I'm just going to fall again, and you're all going to get in a load of shit. I'm a dead man already."

"Guys," Phil warned, "we don't have time to argue this. C'mon, I can carry him." He reached to do so, but the other boy pushed him away.

"Please, don't."

"We aren't leaving you." Dan grabbed his own weapon, a small switchblade that would be useless in a fight, against any foe. Pj and Phil followed his example, pulling out their own small blades, chins set in determination.

The Hangers crested the hill, flying towards them with terrifying swiftness. "Go," Chris begged, pushing himself up unsteadily. "All I want is for you to be safe, alright? We can't all die here. Someone has to remember."

"Dan—"

"Pj, how could you even consider—?"

"It's what he wants."

"My last wish, Dan, please." Chris wiped away the last of his tears, looking at each of his friends in a way that was almost wistful, like he was trying to memorize their features.

Without waiting to indulge into the argument further, Chris sprinted forward, suddenly rejuvenated. The Hangers swarmed on him, a few falling back as Chris fought them off, hitting the visor-like glass area in the middle of their bulbous heads.

Dan struggled towards him, yelling unintelligibly. Pj and Phil held him back, trying to drag him backwards but inevitably failing. The best they could do was sink their feet in the dirt, wrap their arms around his middle, and pull him backwards as best as possible—barely enough to keep him in place.

There were about ten Hangers in total, and Chris had managed to knock down two of them. Still, it was easy to tell that Chris was already growing tired from the fight—even from this distance, they could all see how his face was paling and movements were slowing.

"Can't we help him?" Phil asked Pj over Dan's screams. "There's so few—maybe we could all make it out."

Pj held Dan tighter, pinning the struggling boy's arms to his sides. "You go; if we let Dan get in there, he'll be more trouble than anything. It's like he doesn't even want to live anymore.

Dan swore at them. "I can hear you, you know! Just let me help him!"

" _No_. Go, Phil. Quickly."

Phil sprinted over to Chris, jumping into the fight immediately. They stood back to back, Chris leaning slightly on him, fending off the Hangers. The sound of metal against metal was like fire on Phil's ears, worse than any gun or bullet or bomb.

One of the Hanger's blades cut his arm; it was like ice, burning but somehow numb, like his nerves couldn't decide which one to feel. Immediately, he lashed out, jabbing the handle of his knife in front of him randomly. It went right through the visor, and glass shattered all around, a few pieces sticking painfully in Phil's hand.

The fight seemed to drag on forever—both Chris and Phil were wounded in multiple places by the time the last two machines remained. Some were deep, gushing red, and others were less so, more like pinpricks than anything.

Phil had just pushed his Hanger down when Chris fell again. He turned quickly, grabbing his friend's hand and pulling him up. Just moving his arms hurt, but there would be time to deal with the pain later. "Are you alright?" He asked, making sure Chris was standing steadily.

Chris half-nodded. "Yeah, I'm—Phil!"

He pushed him to the side—Phil fell to the ground, the impact feeling like a truck mowing into his body, taking the air out of his lungs. No, not taking—forcing. Pushing it out like he was a balloon, and someone had let go of the lip. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think beyond the pain, the ache, the fire in his spine. Phil saw Chris knock the Hanger down, and through blurred vision saw him turn towards him, and was able to faintly make out the sound of Chris yelling.

It sounded like a warning.

…

Dan had often been told, in times of great stress, to breathe. Breathe, in and out and in and out slowly, as though that itself would fix whatever was agitating him.

The second he saw the Hanger behind Chris, he forgot how to breathe.

More than that—he forgot how to speak. How to yell out a warning, how to give Chris enough time to maybe—possibly—jump out of the way. So he didn't, he couldn't, and only watched in horror as the machine lifted its bladed arm and stabbed Chris in the stomach.

…

It is not common knowledge, but in every person is a small string, one that connects the heart and the soul. This string is what many know as the will to live. It starts out, early in life, thick, rich, and unbreakable. But slowly, it begins to fray, its fibers tearing slowly, or quickly.

Some are lucky enough to have strong strings; ones that hold out for the entirety of their lives, and are only gently frayed as they close their eyes for the final time. But others, far, far too many others, find that their string breaks too quickly. They grow thinner more easily than others, whether it be all at once or over time.

Pj was the perfect example of this. His string, which had for so long appeared strong, was actually quite weak. When his fiancé died, the shock acted like a saw, wearing it down too quickly for him to realize what was happening. He wasn't observant, in that way—he had learned, like so many others, to put off the pain until it could be more easily dealt with.

Which was why, when the Hanger dropped Chris's body carelessly, and red blood began to seep across the ground, he wasn't able to tell that his string had finally snapped.


	11. Chapter 11

**P** j let go of Dan, who immediately rushed off and began to furiously attack the Hanger. Phil was still on the ground, barely conscious as he watched Pj crumpled beside Chris, numbly using his knife to cut off a chunk of his shirt to press against the wound. The fabric was soaked in seconds.

Chris had always been pale—Dan liked to joke that he looked like a zombie, with the deep splotches of purple underneath his eyes and his inability to tan, despite the constant exposure to sun all soldiers had. But now, he was almost translucent, like someone had replaced his skin with porcelain. His green shirt was almost black with blood, which was slowly spreading outward in a sick way that reminded Pj of a making tie-dye shirts as a child.

Where had it all gone? Childhood, comfort, the dull assurance of tomorrow? Only a few years ago—two, and barely that—he had been so sure of his future. Everything, it had seemed, was right before him like a neatly set stone path.

Was it always that way? Were the workings of the universe always so turbulent, and he just hadn't known? How could he have not known? And if he had known, if he had had time to think, prepare, and plan for this mess, would it have changed a thing? Would his fiancé be alive? Would his family be alive?

Would Chris be able to stay alive?

He shook his head at his own thoughts, snapping his attention back to the present. Chris would live. They had Phil, with his medical supplies and training. Surely he would know how to treat this wound. Surely there would be something he could do.

So why wasn't he moving? Why was he just laying there with that hopeless, mournful look on his face? Was Pj the only one willing to do anything, _anything_ , to save Chris?

"You'll be okay," he promised, cutting off a new strip and pressing it against the wound. "You've survived worse, right?"

That was right, he had. They all had, Chris and Pj and Dan, the last better than any. It had been in the early days of their service, back when both sides still had enough fuel to employ whatever attacks they so desired.

They'd been walking through a field, one with the grass that always felt like razors against bare legs and acted as a host to God-knows how many ticks and fleas. They'd been a few meters away from the base camp, heading back to get some water, when Dan suddenly pulled Chris and Pj down, so quickly they could barely cry out.

The camp had exploded in an angry ball of fire and dust, sending body parts and damaged supplies everywhere. Pj had heard something zing towards him, almost like a sound effect you'd hear in a movie, and that same something bit at his eyes.

Surely a bomb is worse than a Hanger. Surely, if Chris has survived a blast of that magnitude, he could survive this.

"This isn't like the bomb." Chris whispered. Pj hadn't even realized he'd been recounting the story aloud. "You know that. I'm damaged, Pj."

"Don't say that." Why, when around an injured person, is it so impossible to talk normally? Never mind the tears and shaky voice, but even being able to raise one's voice, just a smidge, would make the whole conversation seem less dire. "Don't say that Chris. You're okay, you hear me? You're okay."

"I'm dying." Tears began to flow down his cheeks; slowly, at first, but gradually becoming a steady stream, a physical representation of the group's shared grief.

"No. You aren't dying. You can't die on me Chris. Not you too." Pj pulled Chris's head into his lap, stroking his hair gently. "Just relax. You need to heal."

Chris grabbed Pj's hand. His grip was strong, for someone who seemed so weak. "Please leave me. I can't stand to see you cry."

Cry? Pj supposed it made sense, for him to be crying. He hadn't even realized that the tears had begun to flow, he'd been too focused on Chris, watching his chest move up and down in its irregular rhythm.

Up, beat, down. Longer beat, up, down. Up, beat, down. And so on.

"I'm not leaving, so you better shut up if all you're going to manage is nonsense. You don't leave a soldier on the battlefield, and you don't leave a friend when they need you."

"You're such an idiot," Chris sobbed, ugly, gasping tears that seemed to only worsen his pain. "I don't even know why they let you in the army. God, that...that hurts."

"I know. Hold on, Chris. Hold on."

Behind them, Dan finally stopped his ruthless attack on the Hanger, which, by then, was barely recognizable as a heap of metal. He collapsed beside it, his sudden burst of energy completely spent.

"I love you, Pj." Chris said weakly. He didn't seem to notice Dan, crying to himself, or Phil, up and searching through his satchel for any sort of needles or gauze that would help. "You're my best friend."

"I love you, too."

"I never wrote a note to say goodbye."

"There's no goodbye, believe me." He brushed Chris's hair back and kissed his forehead, like his mother used to do when he was small and scared of the shadows on the wall. "Goodbye is forgetting, and there's no forgetting you."

"I love you." Chris repeated, lips turning up in a weak smile.

"Chris?"

"Don't forget me. That's my worst fear. Don't forget me."

"Chris..."

"Pj."

And that was it. Even Phil seemed to notice the heavy silence, because he stopped searching through his bag and went over to Dan, letting the younger boy slump into his arms.

For a moment, they forgot the danger of staying still and the fear they had carried with them for so long, and remembered the simple truth we all learn from the youngest age: sometimes, it's okay to just cry.


	12. Chapter 12

_**W**_ _hat now._

That was the first thing Pj said, after ten hours of painful, heavy silence, only broken by the ratty breathing of the three boys ( _three_ —how unlucky, how incomplete, how hopeless that number seemed. How terrible, painful, small) and the crackle of the flames.

It was a difficult question, one even Dan, who never shut up when it came to orders and instructions, was hesitant to answer. Pj seemed to him like a rocket, left too long in the dry heat, ready to go off with the smallest spark. Neither he nor Phil wanted to be the one on the wrong end of the blast.

"Maybe…" Phil offered hesitantly. "Maybe we should just bury him first, and then we can figure out the rest from there. We can't waste anymore time, not with Hangers and Scavengers and everything."

Scavengers—Dan had almost forgotten about them. There were, of course, the natural types; eagles and coyotes, the like, but he knew Phil meant the Other kind. The human kind.

Ex soldiers, abandoned children, lost souls who had become a third party in what was already a horrendous war. Led by desperation or anger, often both, these people, with minds often frayed from the constant fear and stress, sometimes to the point of full insanity, had banded together, creating a small but powerful force. They would collect bodies from the street and eat them, often leaving limbs or bones at random points, just to show they had been there. There had been several attacks on army hospitals, often ending with the tents being burned or otherwise destroyed. There were even stories of raids on towns, with death counts higher than Hanger attacks. It seemed Scavengers existed for no other reason than to destroy.

They represented humanity at its lowest, but, Dan couldn't help but think, also humanity at its core.

"Burying isn't proper." Pj snapped. "Besides, the ground is too hard. And we don't even have a spade."

"I don't think we can do much else, Peej." Dan said quietly, in the same tone one might adopt when approaching a feral cat. "Burning takes too long, to do and to make a fire for. You know we don't have that much time…"

"Are you really arguing the convenience of this? I thought Chris was your best friend."

"Dan is right," Phil said, "burning is timely. And it never really gets rid of the full body, anyways, so it's kind of useless. Maybe we could go back to the river—"

"Of course, you can say that," Pj scoffed. "You never knew him. You never fought with him, cared about him." His voice broke, and he glanced back at Chris's body, still lying where he had fallen. "But I did. And he deserves a proper goodbye. A soldier's goodbye."

"Pj," Phil reasoned, "I'd want the same thing for my family, too, but—"

"Screw your family, Phil! They're dead! They're dead, and Chris is dead and Sophie is dead and everyone, everyone we ever loved is dead or dying or somewhere unreachable." Pj shook his head. He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was softer, but no kinder. "I wish you would stop pretending otherwise."

Phil stared at him for a moment, and something in his eyes seemed to dull. Dan moved towards him, not really knowing why, but Phil pushed him away. "I'm going for a walk," he spat. "If there's an attack, don't bother calling."

He turned on his heel and stormed off. Pj watched him go with red eyes, almost ashamed, but also maybe the slightest bit pleased. Like he was so hurt, it was good for him to see someone feel the same way.

"We're floating the body, Pj. He's gone now; what's left isn't him."

Dan was right. It wasn't. And the emptiness was what stun


	13. Chapter 13

**T** hey sent Chris down the river at noon the next day. Within the hour, they had started north at their usual spaced pace; this time, however, the roles were switched. Pj walked briskly ahead, not bothering to call or even check behind him to make sure the other two were following, while Dan and Phil hung back.

Grief was a strange emotion for Dan. He had forgotten how raw and cold it could be, how the worst loss could break past even his barriers and strike him in a way best described as a stab to the heart, taken again and again at the hands of someone once trusted.

It was strange on the other end, too. Phil had always known Dan as cold and distant, and had figured sadness would only strengthen those traits. Instead they seemed to do the opposite. Dan clung to Phil like a child, talking and telling stories about Chris and their time fighting together, seemingly hesitant to leave Phil's side.

"How did you get discharged, anyway?" Dan asked. "Pj had his eye, Chris, his leg...I, well, you know…" He had deserted. Phil had known this, but the fact still shocked him, however hypocritically. Desertion was a crime punishable by death, and Dan just didn't seem like the type to risk it.

"I worked for the Enemy," Dan blanched openly, "only as a nurse, though. I can't shoot very well, and even if I could I wouldn't kill for them. It's just not my style."

He still remembered the day he had been taken. Dragged from his home, down the stoney dirt road and into a white van. Like something out of a horror movie, only worse. Horror movies are escapable; be smart, you'll survive. Call the police. Run away from the house. That sort of thing. But this was real life; being smart, being able, had been Phil's downfall.

It wouldn't have been so bad, to fight for the Central powers. They drafted, gave time to say goodbye. But the Enemy, formally the United States, was known for its cruelty. They would break any family, take any life to win the war.

But he hadn't had the choice. To both sides, the soldiers were merely pawns. Not people, just pieces on a chessboard. All apart of one big game of survival.

"I deserted, too." Phil admitted, after what felt like an uncomfortably long period of silence. "There was a boy, Dean, one from your side. The Central, I mean. I—I just couldn't save him." His voice cracked, and he felt Dan put an arm around his shoulder. Phil knew he didn't deserve the comfort, but accepted it nonetheless. "He was so young, Dan. So vulnerable. All he wanted was to see his Jack, just one more time...And his friend. God, I can't—"

He buried his face in Dan's shirt. He hadn't let himself think of Dean in so long; thinking of Dean meant thinking of the army, and thinking of the army meant thinking about his crime, the possible outcome of which scared him more than anything. But he could almost forget all that, here, in this safe moment with the sun streaming down gently and Dan's arms around him, warming the ice inside.

He didn't want to pull away. Dan didn't want to let go. But they both did, and Phil wiped at his eyes, the red on his face deepening when he saw the wetness on Dan's shirt, and thought of how splotchy his face must be. Not exactly ideal.

"His friend ran off, and I passed him a few minutes later, when I was running away. He'd been shot in the shoulder, and a medic was trying to treat him, but he just kept pushing her away. He was crying, Dan, so quietly and horribly. Like all the grief in the world was suddenly poured into him. I've never seen anyone so sad."

"I hate that." Dan murmured. They had started walking again, neither wanting to fall too far behind Pj. "I hate this war. I hate the armies. Why are we supposed to fight for the other generations? Why do we have to be the ones to clean up this mess? We're young, too young for this, and they're giving us the kind of scars no one should ever have. Why us? Why now?"

"I don't know, Dan," Phil said quietly. "Sometimes things just happen that way. It just means that we'll come out of this stronger."

"If we come out of it at all, you mean."

"How can you think like that?" Phil scolded. "How can you be so cynical? The world's horrid enough as it is; you don't have to make it worse like that."

"Moment over." Dan muttered, so softly that Phil almost missed it. "I don't know why I do that, okay? It's better to expect worse and receive better than to be disappointed."

"But then you just lose your will to fight, if you always figure you'll lose."

Dan reached behind his neck, unclipping the necklace Phil had forgotten he wore. He put it in Phil's hand. The metal was surprisingly warm, from being against Dan's skin, and he could feel it cooling. "I keep this around my neck to remind me of the reasons why I fight. This is my motivation, Phil."

He flicked a small latch that was on the top, and the locket opened. In it were two small photos: one, of a woman and her daughter, both with the same brown eyes and hair as Dan. The other was of a gruff looking man, standing with his arm around a younger boy. A boy with light, excited eyes and a carefree smile, but one that was undeniably Dan. Which must mean that Phil was looking at—

"My family," Dan confirmed, smiling bitterly at the pictures. "My mom and sister are dead, Le was killed a little before the war started, and my mom by a suicide bomber. It still hurts, sometimes, but at least they didn't have to deal with all this, you know?" He closed the locket and put it carefully back around his neck, slipping it underneath his shirt. Phil realized that it sat directly above his heart.

"What about the man? Is that your dad?"

Dan nodded. "He's at the safe space. I hope he is, at least. It's a wild hope, of course—so few people really make it, but...he was a high ranking officer. Maybe he made it. Just maybe."

"I guess we're all chasing maybes, these days."

"Oh, no, it's always been like that. The stakes were just amped up a little for us." He smiled (not a real smile; Phil was beginning to realize that Dan rarely smiled fully, with dimples and eyes and true happiness. Maybe that could be his new challenge: make Dan smile.), taking Phil's hand in a way almost like he expected a protest, and seeming pleasantly surprised when he received none. "C'mon. Let's go catch up to Pj, shall we?"


	14. Chapter 14

**T** he dog was short, squat and fat. Brown and white, with torn perky ears and a face that looked like a cartoon character's after being smashed in with a hammer.

Dan thought it was adorable.

He and Phil had been trailing behind Pj, as had become the new norm, when they heard rustling in the bushes. And growling. Dan had pulled out his knife, thinking that it was a hurt animal, or maybe a cat (the feline population had a miraculous boom during the war; previous humans hadn't been wrong in guessing that the cats were waiting for the brink of human extinction so that they could take over) that had strayed from the city.

They paused for a few suspenseful moments, waiting for the attack...when out stumbled what Phil immediately discounted as "the world's ugliest bulldog", in all its three-legged glory.

Three days later, neither Phil nor Pj were happy about the dog, christened Mouschi, but had gradually come to accept it, the way one does mosquitoes in the summer.

Dan, on the other hand, had fallen in love with the thing. Every time they would stop for lunch or to set up camp, he would throw sticks for it, and if Pj or Phil laughed at the way the dog ran he would tell them off for it. He shared his pillow with it every night ("It doesn't even _need_ a pillow," Phil had said, "it's a _dog_."), and had, one more than one occasion, told Phil that he was jealous because Dan loved the dog more than him. ("I'm not jealous," he whined, with jealousy, "I'm just confused, is all.")

"Why did you name it Mouschi, anyway?" Phil asked one day, watching as the dog did its funny little run, first leaning heavily on the back paws and then bouncing to the front one. "It's odd."

Dan shrugged, smiling as Mouschi collided with a tree in his excitement to grab the stick he'd thrown. "He looks like a mouse. Plus, it was the name of Anne's cat, in the Annex. At least, the one Peter Van Daan brought with him. I just kind of thought it fit." Mouschi started to run back to them, cheeks filling with air and twisting into a silly ( _and ugly_ , Phil thought) grin. "Maybe we're not all trapped in a building, but we're trapped...here. Stuck between life and death and this stupid war."

"You can be very philosophical at times, you know that? It's weird. But...cool, too. Like you're more than just the uncaring, alien overlord of this group."

"Overlord?"

"You can be quite bossy at times," Phil held his hands up apologetically. "But you're pretty great. Now. Except for the whole dog thing, because that's not so great. But everything else, yes. Good. Great."

"Aw, are you blushing?" Dan teased.

"No," Phil lied. "Your dog is back." He bent to pat Mouschi, but the bulldog growled and backed away. He sighed.


	15. Chapter 15

**P** hil knew this place. He knew the way the trees seemed to breath, the wind brushing through them giving off a sweet, flowery smell. He knew the whisper of the creek, one that flowed straight into the lake that Dan had always escaped to.

What he didn't know, or, rather, had long forgotten, was this feeling. Soft, calm, gentle. Like there was something not squeezing inside him, but rather...spreading out. Enveloping him in a feeling of complete...he couldn't place it. The feeling was like, a first kiss, new and soft and gentle. Like a hug, right when you need it most. Like the familiarity of laughing and talking with friends.

It was then that he realized that he must be dreaming. Nothing in life was this good; not now, maybe not ever again.

Except...with a start he found himself thinking of Dan. Dan, who was bossy and arrogant and distant, but Dan, who was sarcastic and easy to love and slow to laugh, though when he did it was like nothing else mattered. Dan, his friend.

He suddenly noticed the shadow next to him and turned to see Dan, who was giving him that little half smile of his. Even in dreams, he never seemed truly happy enough for anything more. "Phil," he greeted, toying with his locket. "What are you doing here?"

"Just standing, I suppose," he said lamely, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"And blushing. Again. I just seem to have that effect on you, don't I?" Dan laughed, stepping closer. "I wonder why."

"Me too," Phil muttered. "So, what are we doing here?"

"I suppose we came to look at that." Dan focused on something over Phil's shoulder.

Phil followed his gaze and turned, gagging at what he saw.

It was a corpse. Small, curled in like the person died in great pain, bloated and red as it slowly rotted away. It was hardly recognizable as human, barely recognizable as a human Phil once knew...until he noticed the bow.

The small, red bow his sister always wore in her hair. The one she claimed made her feel pretty, despite the teasing of the other kids at school that said otherwise. Crumpled, faded and frayed, yet still the one accessory Phil knew his sister never left the house without.

He still remembered the last time he had helped her put it on, the day he was dragged off to join the army. Neither of them had known, then, what was going to happen. That they would be separated for two years—possibly more, if they continued at this pace to the camp, with only a handful of letters sent between them.

He'd been angry that day. Now, he couldn't remember why, but at the time it had seemed like such a big deal. His mother had asked him to help Sara brush her hair because they were running late. He'd put up a fight, but, as usual, his mother won.

"Do you really want to wear this?" He had asked.

Those had been his last words to his sister, verbally, at least. To his mother, a simple, and harsh, "Goodbye".

If only he had known. If only he had tried a little harder to be better. A better brother, better son.

If only.

He felt tears begin to stream down his cheeks, and opened his eyes. The body was gone. Dan was, too. In his place stood Chris, with his back to Phil, facing a Hanger. As he watched, Chris turned, blood dripping down his front, red and dark and thick...and suddenly Chris was Pj, yelling at Phil for not being there, for not doing enough to save Chris, for watching him die. _Useless_ , he shouted, _why do you have to be so useless?_

And then Dan was there, kissing Phil, cradling the back of his head and touching his waist gently—and falling. Dan was falling, collapsing onto Phil, who could feel something warm and sticky on his hands.

He fell to the ground, resting Dan's head on his lap as he stared in horror. There seemed to be no wound, no place for the blood to be coming from, other than smooth, perfectly intact skin ...it just kept coming. Pouring out of Dan's throat, stomach, back.

"Please, Phil," Dan whispered, gripping Phil's shirt. "Save me. Please."

"I'm trying," Phil croaked, searching frantically for anything, _anything_ , that might help, but finding only weeds and dust.

And then it was over. Dan's hand fell, his whimpering stopped. Even the blood disappeared, and Phil—

Phil opened his eyes. For a moment, he tensed, feeling the weight of someone's arms around him, but he relaxed when he realized that it was just Dan. He smiled, leaning into his friend, enjoying the feeling of the gentle cadence of Dan's breathing, knowing that it meant Dan was still alive. And along as Dan was alive, it seemed, there was hope.


	16. Chapter 16

**T** he war had left many people dead, but the real problem, in Phil's eyes, were the ones who were dying.

They haunted the streets of every town; their dust-covered clothes tattered and ragged, their eyes gaunt and hungry as they peered from the shadows of the alleyways. Some exchanged what little they had to offer for food or water, but most only watched market trades eagerly, waiting for the vendors to throw out their rotten scraps. They knew that the bacteria would probably kill them, that their bodies, drained of fat and nutrients, could no more survive the bacteria than they could a beating. But they ate it anyway.

They ate it because, despite everything, they hoped. They hoped that maybe, if they could just find parts of the bread that wasn't white, or peel the fuzz from the apple, they might be okay. That the rolling and tugging in their stomachs would stop, finally, and they would survive.

But they didn't. Because that was what hope did—it made you light and confident and invincible, so much so that you become blinded, and can't see that what you're doing, whatever you're doing, is only going to hurt you.

Phil glanced over at Dan and sighed. Sometimes it was better not to hope.

One such beggar was a young man dressed in an Enemy uniform. Even the pedestrians veered around him. Phil couldn't blame them, after all the horrible things the army had done, the homes destroyed and families torn apart...it was a wonder that the treatment he was receiving wasn't even worse. Phil, himself, had changed clothes as quickly as he could.

Despite his attire, Dan went over and gave the man food and new clothes. It wasn't much, just a small bit of bird and a faded shirt, but it was enough to make the soldier beam and offer something in return: a photo.

What Phil hadn't noticed was the small Polaroid camera hanging around the man's neck on a piece of string. The soldier, who introduced himself as Ryan, told them about how his girlfriend had given it to him before he had gone into service. "Even then, prices had been high," he said, smiling at the dirty blue piece of plastic fondly, "but she'd wanted to give it to me, to remember her by. 'Take lots of pictures,' she said, 'I'll see them one day.'"

"Did she?" Phil asked. "See the pictures, I mean." Dan elbowed him in the side.

"No," Ryan's face fell. "There was an epidemic of some sort of illness in my town—cholera or something in the water. Since there was no vaccine...almost no one survived." He shrugged, forcing a quick smile. "But I guess that's how it goes, right? You love, you lose, and, someday, someone loves and loses you."

"I lost my girlfriend, too." Pj admitted quietly. "And my best friend. I really—I know sorry doesn't help, nothing will. Nothing's ever going to bring them back, and nothing will ever help the hurt...but I really am sorry. I'm sorry you had to go through that. I'm sorry you had to be alone."

"It was hard, losing her," he admitted. "She was all I had left, after my mom went missing. I'm not special, though. And I think realizing that...that was probably the worst part about the whole thing." They were all quiet for a moment, remembering the ones that they would never see again. The ones they were never able to save. And Phil, not for the first time, was reminded of Chris, who had been brave until the end.

Finally, Ryan broke the silence. "Let's take this picture, yeah?" He directed Phil and Pj against the wall (Dan stayed back with Mouschi, trying to make them smile with corny jokes and stupid faces). After a minute, Phil was being pulled away by Pj and watching as Dan put the picture in his pocket. The whole thing was rather anticlimactic, really.

And so was the mood for the rest of the day. The wandered through the town, at first on edge about how eerily un-terrifying the place was, with its little market of vendors, selling everything from colorful yarn and jewelry to soil for gardens and enough nonperishable food to last through the rest of a lifetime.

Dan cashed an old check and bought a small chocolate bar, which they all had a piece of. The chocolate was bitter and tough, something Phil would've never enjoyed before the war, but was then somehow like the ambrosia of the gods. He tried to make his piece last, sucking the melted bits off his fingers and letting it melt in his mouth, but it was still gone all too quickly.

Dan saw the disappointment on Phil's face and laughed. "I know, right? When did sugar become so _good_?"

"It's always been good," Pj argued, "we were just too privileged to realize it. If I had any now, even just a bag of regular brown sugar, I would literally die. Or cry. Or maybe both."

"Cry, then die," Phil suggested.

"Exactly."

"I guess we know what to put your last meals off as." Dan stood and wiped his hands on his shorts. "Anyway, I heard that there was a river just down the road from here. And, since it was so hot, I figured…" He grinned devilishly, and Phil could almost guess what was coming: "Race you!"

Dan, always a skilled soldier and athlete, quickly left Pj and Phil behind. They both laughed, complaining lightly with ragged breaths as they ran behind, eventually falling into a jog. Dan turned and ran backwards to face them. "Slowpokes," he jeered, "I thought you were supposed to be soldiers!"

"I was a nurse!" Phil shot back."Besides, you had a head start!"

"It's no use," Pj wheezed, stopping and crumpling to the ground. "He's too fast. I can't go on!"

Phil debated helping him up, but decided against it. Dan had stopped just ahead, only a few meters away from a sign reading "Water Hole". Instead, Phil waved away Pj's hand and chuckled. "Too bad for you, then."

He quickened his step until he and Dan were running next to each other. Both panted as they tried to elbow the other off the path. Limbs waved everywhere—legs stumbling, arms pushing, and heads kicking back with laughter.

Phil could see the water in the near distance, just down a short, steep drop, and heard Pj running up close behind. As a last-ditch effort, he reached out with one arm to push Dan. Unfortunately, he leaned a little too far to the side and fell on him instead. They both tumbled, rolling down the hill and landing in the water below.

For a moment, Phil flailed in the water. He could feel Dan next to him for a moment, but then sunk further in, all the way to where he could feel the reeds and grainy mud at the bottom cover his feet.

And then two arms were wrapped around his waist, pulling him up and out of the water, where the warm air surrounded him like a blanket. Dan continued to hold Phil as he coughed and sputtered for air. "Are you okay?" He asked, once Phil had calmed down a little. "I mean it is your fault, for pushing us in there, but still. Are you?"

Phil was saved from answering by Pj, who jumped into the water next to them yelling something unintelligible. Mouschi followed behind him, taking the safer route and trotting down the hill. The dog stopped at the edge of the water, dipped in a paw, and then lay on the ground, deciding that the pond was too cold to enter.

Pj popped up and squirted a spout of water from his mouth. "You know, for straight guys you two sure are pretty touchy-feely." He said, eyeing them suspiciously.


	17. Chapter 17

**A** fter an hour, the three friends climbed out of the water. They were exhausted, but not in a terrible way. They were the sort of tired that one gets after hours of laughing and wrestling and generally being young; the side-cramping, muscle-aching kind of tired. After so long in the war, they had forgotten what this feeling was. This light, hopeful feeling. This feeling of infinity, like nothing could ever break the pure unsullied happiness of the day.

But, of course, this was not to be true.

Dan thew Pj his shirt to dry off with, choosing to shake the water out of his own hair. A few drops hit Phil, who complained loudly, so much so that he was too distracted to see Mouschi run up behind him, and had only a second of warning (though Dan was surprised he wasn't able to hear the slobbery dog's pants from a mile away) before Mouschi jumped on him.

While Phil was trying to push Mouschi off (rather unsuccessfully, the dog seemed to think the whole struggle to be a game), Pj pulled Dan aside. He seemed nervous, yet still happier than Dan had seen him...well, maybe ever. It might've been the fact of Dan and Phil actually getting along, the general lax fun of the day, or maybe even the nearness of the shelter, and therefore the nearness of true safety.

"What do you need?" Dan asked, taking his shirt from Pj and pulling it over his head. Phil and Pj were still drying off, but he preferred to keep himself covered at much as possible. Just, you know, for safety. "Is everything alright?"

"Perfectly," Pj said cheerfully. "In fact, this has probably been one of the best days I've had since he died." Even now, Pj still avoided saying Chris' name. "Which is why I think we should stay here."

"Well, we're not leaving right now," Dan reasoned, "I was thinking maybe we'd get some more supplies back in town, and then start walking again."

"That's not what I meant." Of course it wasn't. It's not like Pj had been trying to hide his happiness over the past two days they'd spent in town. In every town, really, he always seemed to have that same hopefulness, and as little as Dan wanted to believe it, he knew that it stemmed from the possibility that they might stay there. Settle down, all three of them (or four. At one point, there had been four.) and start a life among the other survivors. But Dan also knew that it could never happen. "I meant, we should stay here. In the town. There's still another week's walk left, and so much can happen over that time...maybe it'd be best if we didn't continue. These people have survived here since the start of the war. It's safe."

"So's the bunker." Dan shook his head. "You said so yourself, Pj. There's only another week of walking. We've survived for so long out here...can't you just stay a little longer?"

"Of course, you would say that." By now, Phil was watching them curiously from the river bank a few feet away. Pj didn't seem to notice. "But not all of us are like you, Dan. We can't all be wandering souls; we can't all be happy moving from town to town constantly, without so much as a bed to return to each night. Some people need comfort. Some people need to know that there's at least one thing constant in their lives, always."

"You do have a constant, Peej," Dan pleaded. "Me and Phil. Always."

"You know, Chris told me that once. Just look how that turned out."

"I don't know what to tell you, then. It's war, Pj, and there will never be anything that you can trust. There will never be anything that you can always rely on, because that's how it is. And I think that's how it always was. Homes are destroyed and children taken and friends killed. Even friends who promised you infinities, because that's just _what fucking happens_."

"But what if it didn't have to?" Pj whispered, and Dan knew that he was clinging to this, this village, this little bit of security he found, the small amount he seemed to feel was left. "What if we could just be safe here? Like we used to be?"

"What does this mean, Pj?"

"I guess it means we say goodbye."

Dan pulled him into a tight hug, trying to send so many messages with that one short grip. Messages like, _I love you, and please don't get hurt_ and _This is super idiotic but I guess I'll support you_ and _I just don't want you to leave._

And Pj seemed to understand, because his read the same.

They pulled apart, and Dan pressed the remainder of his money in Pj's hands. "It's not much…" He shrugged, stuffing his hand in his pockets.

"But it's too much." Pj shook his head, pushing it back at Dan. "I can't take this. This has to be everything you have left."

"It is, but it's worth it. If you're going to live here, you're going to need to start of with something, lest you end up dead with nothing."

"You sound like my mom sending me off to university."

"Yeah, well, I'm your friend sending you off to hopefully not die." Dan pushed Pj's hands away. " _Take it_."

"Thank you. For this, and...everything. You've saved my ass more times than I can count."

"And I'll save it again if you need me to."

After that, there was silence. They both knew that, after this goodbye, there would be no saving of anyone's ass. Pj was on his own from here. And that thought, Dan noticed, fucking hurt.

They hugged again, and Phil shook Pj's hand. It seemed too informal a goodbye, too wrong. Still, how else is one to leave behind years of friendship, knowing that there will be no more jokes or laughs, no more new memories or scars earned together. Just an empty space where a friend once stood?

How do you say goodbye, when goodbye is usually reserved as a see-you-tomorrow? How do you tell your friend, your best friend, everything you need to say, without the knowledge that there will always be more that you remember, later, when it's too late? How do you not miss the friends you leave behind, and how do you not think of them every day, if only for a second, and wonder if that goodbye was the true last?

How can you move on, without wondering _what if_?

So here they were, emotions finally breaking through every wall they'd had built, tears streaming down one face and onto another, holding each other with every bit of love they had, until it didn't seem possible for anything to break this moment, and no words could ever be better than this goodbye, and it was time to turn away.

And so they did. Dan, slowly, with Phil's help, gathered their things, separated them into three piles, and packed two away to carry, and left Pj forever.


End file.
